Find a New Flame
by TrigramCyborg
Summary: What if instead of dying, Soap ends up with career ending injuries? He must find a new reason to get out of bed in the morning, and find ways to cope with the dramatic changes that happen as a result while trying to pick up the pieces and make sense of his changed life. (AU, fatherly sort of Soap/Price)
1. Chapter 1

_This is an AU based off an image I found on Google Images of MacTavish, except he's missing both an arm and an eye. I wanted to write this as something that entertains the idea of him somehow surviving Blood Brothers in MW3 and what the fallout of all that would be. Obviously I don't own the image this is inspired by, and I won't be using it for the cover image because I haven't contacted the artist for permission to use it. It's on a website called Zerochan, for anyone who wishes to find it._

 **Hotel Lustig, Prague, 11th October 2016**

* * *

Every hour, Soap checked his sniper rifle. A simple once over was all he needed to do, make sure nothing was jammed or anything. After about the fifth or sixth time he did this, Yuri started giving him funny looks. The Russian was often quiet, spoke very little around him, yet held an intense atmosphere around him. It made the former Captain miss having Ghost around; at least he was able to hold a conversation for more than two sentences. At least Ghost didn't make MacTavish uneasy.

He faked a friendly enough demeanor whenever Price or Nikolai were around, just to avoid conflict within their small group. They couldn't afford Nikolai being torn between anybody or Price becoming volatile. Soap's act dropped somewhat when they were alone though, just enough to clue Yuri in that they weren't friends by any means. He didn't care if Yuri saved his bloody life at this point. He was grateful at first, sure, that's just being a decent human being. There were small things about the man that made Soap uncomfortable around him. His silence, Nikolai's comment that he hated Makarov more than either him or Price... Maybe he was being paranoid, overthinking things, but this felt like another "enemy of my enemy" situation.

After he finished checking his weapon again, he sighed and looked down to the street. It was finally morning, Makarov should be here soon enough. "Which vehicle will he be in?" He wondered aloud.

"They constantly rotate for security," Yuri answered in his usual accented rasp. "We won't know until he steps out."

MacTavish glared at him from the corner of his eye. "You seem to know a lot about Makarov."

Before Yuri could provide a defense, Price said over the comms, "Alpha One, radio check, over."

"Bravo One, copy," MacTavish responded, an inkling of exhaustion leaking into his voice. They'd been in this position for a long time now. "We're dug in with line of sight."

"Right, Kamarov's our eyes and ears inside the hotel. Once he gives us the nod, we'll kick this off." This was all Price had to say for now. Almost a whole half hour passed before he came back on with a curt, "What do you see?"

"Bugger-all, mate. Looks like Makarov's late for his own funeral," Soap told him.

"Sit tight until we get a clean shot. Then you can put as many rounds on him as you like."

"It'll only take one." With the sound of helicopters and cars approaching, MacTavish checks his rifle once more and says, "It's almost time, Yuri. The meeting will be on the second floor."

They both took aim at the building, and that's when Soap slowly watched their plans come unraveled. When he spotted Makarov in the third vehicle, he saw the man turn his head and look directly their way a hint of a smirk on his lips. It sent a shiver down his spine as he tried to his hardest to rationalize it. There was no way he could see them from this distance. It was impossible. Next was Kamarov going dark. It should have been more than enough reason to decide that their plan had gone south, that they had to pull out of the mission and retreat. Again, Soap tried to rationalize it. The idiot could've just forgot to turn on his comm. It wouldn't be the first time. They didn't have time to think too hard about it, they had to proceed with the mission.

That was just how SAS did things. They don't abandon mission.

After Price got inside, that's when things really fell apart. He found Kamarov tied to a chair in the elevator, loaded with C4. He could see the light flashing on the explosives, and Price duck for cover. "Price! Get out of there!"

Then he heard Makarov talking on the comm, likely taken off of Kamarov. He didn't hear much of the first part, processed some of it as Russian. The building exploded as the terrorist continued, "Yuri, my friend. You never should have come here."

Soap dropped the sniper rifle, his hands shaking. "What the hell's he talking about?" Suddenly he heard the familiar beep of explosives in the room. His heart slammed painfully now. Without even thinking, he shouted at Yuri, grabbed him by the back of his coat and threw him out of the building. Just as he jumped after him, he felt the heat and shock wave hit his back and right side.

Everything that followed felt like slow motion. Soap squinted his eye as the flash and fire hit his face. Then he smacked the sloped roof and started to roll. All his training flashed through his mind, he tried to control his fall, reaching out his hands to find purchase. He practically bounced over Yuri and flew off the edge. In his free fall and subsequent panic, he threw his arm in front of him to absorb the impact as he crashed through some scaffolding. He felt a sharp stabbing in his elbow and forearm. When he finally hit the ground arm first, everything went black.

There was a lot of weight on him, weight and brutally agonizing pain in his right arm. He could hardly see. Distantly, he heard gunfire, Price screaming his callsign. Suddenly the debris was flipped off him and he attempted to move his arm and get up. His hand only twitched. That's when he saw it, the large pieces of wood and metal sticking into the torn and bloodied sleeve, the awkward angle his wrist was turned at. Hands grabbed at his back and turned him over, and he just barely caught sight of Price through what was clearly a narrowed field of view. He also was reminded of his arm as it connected with the ground elbow first, which clearly jarred something and made him give an agonized groan.

"Look at me! You're alright!" Price shouted, then he was well out of his field of view. "Yuri! Grab him, we have to move now!"

Soap flinched as he once again tried to move by himself. If nothing else, he was stunned. In a matter of moments though, his mangled arm was grabbed as Yuri hoisted him on his shoulder to pull him along, and it was the worst thing he felt next to being stabbed in the stomach. He just about blacked out from the pain alone. Had he been in a better frame of mind, he would have told Yuri to do the bloody fireman carry and make this far less painful on his part. Instead he had to deal with Yuri tripping over in his haste and his own uncooperative feet, causing them both to tumble over after 20 or so meters, and Price shouting to pick him up.

They escaped the gunfire by going inside a blown open building and ending up in an alleyway on the other side. Price barked, "Set him down." Yuri sat him in front of a dumpster. The second his arm was released, it flopped uselessly beside him.

Soap grit his teeth, finally finding his voice again, "Just patch me up. Get me back in this." As he was saying this though, Price passed Yuri his gun and asserted that they had to move. Unfortunately for Soap, Price grabbed his right arm to pull him up. Once it was slung over though, Price let it go and grabbed him by the side to free up his own hand to hold a pistol. Although the jostling did him no favors, it hurt less than being grabbed. "We need... Nikolai... get us out..."

Price started hauling ass, kicking a door in and just about dragging him into the building. It became very apparent to Soap now that he must've rolled his ankle in the initial escape, since he couldn't keep much weight on it without buckling. One bad step though caused Soap's arm to bounce off Price's shoulder and for his old Captain to lose his grip on him. Soap tumbled onto the ground and knocked over a few boxes, once again landing his bad arm in the process. This time though he managed to catch himself a little with his off hand. Price didn't miss a beat and picked him right back up with a sharp "C'mon, Soap! You can make it."

Yuri was sent on ahead while Price pulled Soap along behind him. As Soap started to find more and more clarity, he became all too aware that his vision was definitely wrong. He couldn't seem to see out of his right eye at all, so any depth perception was gone. They raced through a store, bullets flying all around them, then out into the street where there were just as much enemies out there waiting for them. Soap fished out his pistol off his thigh holster and clutched it in his off hand, determined to help however possible.

They were moving not even a minute later, zero time to wait around. It was another door kicked down and through another building. Soap stepped wrong on his sprained ankle again, causing him to buckle. This time, Price readjusted his grip in time and kept him up as they got out into the streets. Yuri was making short work of their attackers, leaving a relatively clear path for them to follow. In that moment, he spotted an enemy coming from their left. He quickly shot him down as they made their way down the street.

"Nice shot, son..." Price told him.

Soap couldn't see Price's face right now, it was out of his view. He just gave a withering smile and said under his breath, "I can still teach you a thing or two, old man." The moment was gone in an instant as cars full of enemies appeared. "There's more! On the street!"

"Cut through the building! Let's go!"

The situation seemed to keep degrading. "They just keep comin'," Soap growled as Price let him down. This time he propped himself against a display case to get the weight off his ankle and aimed down with his left hand to help cover Yuri while he cleared the way. As Price shouted for them to keep moving, Soap heard more enemies coming. At this rate, Price would exhaust himself on their way to safety and they'd all die.

Soap swallowed heavily, not sure whether this revelation or the physical pain was worse by now. "Just leave me, Price!"

This elicited a sneer from the older man as he grabbed Soap, slung him over his shoulder and kept going. "No! I'm getting you out of this!"

He couldn't argue with the man anymore, he simply focused on moving as fast as he could in spite of his limp. He wouldn't be the reason they died. He refused to be the reason. He felt his eyes burn as they hobbled across a courtyard, as they ducked behind a brick fence.

"We made it, Soap! Just hold on!" Price let him go and Soap ungracefully tripped and hit the ground knee first. Although that hurt, and Price paused to help him, Soap brushed him off and moved himself forward a little before settling down against the brick wall, leaned on his off hand, his right arm limply laying on his lap. He listened to the firefight happening around him, shaking now. They had to get out. This was too much. Suddenly he heard three words that made all his fears vanish, "It's the resistance!"

It wasn't even a minute later when a part of the local resistance grabbed hold of him, one looping his hands under his armpits and the other by the ankles, and carried him inside. Soap's head lulled a little as he took in the sight of the roof passing overhead. There were more resistance there, guarding the way and covering where they came. The two carrying him set him down on a table. Price entered his limited field of view, and that's when he noticed Price's ear piece was missing. It must've been knocked out way back in the first explosion. If that were the case, then that meant that he didn't... "Price... Yuri..."

"Not now, Soap. Just rest." Price immediately turned around and shouted, "Get a medic!"

Frustrated, Soap let his head fall back against the table. He closed his eyes and tried to gather the resolve to simply interrupt Price and shout it at him, something. This was fucking important and he wasn't about to let it go yet.

Price shook him though, which did zero favors for his arm. "C'mon, stay with me, son!"

"Price..." Soap reached up now, finding the collar to the older man's shirt. He grabbed it tightly and pulled him in close, it was a struggle to prop himself up enough to look him dead in the eye. In that instant, Price froze, he stopped trying to hush him, he simply took hold of Soap's hand on his shirt. "You need to know... Makarov. Knows. Yuri." His balance slipped and he hit the back of his head against the wood. His grip tightened on Price's shirt as he growled lowly.

Price looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Slowly, he mouthed these words over before shaking his head. "It doesn't matter right now, we've got to get you fixed up. You're gonna be alright."

At that moment, the resistance leader approached. "Price, you have to go! Now!"

Soap gave Price a hard stare as he took back his hand and sat up. "Nikolai's not too far from here. I'll live for now, let's go."

Gunfire then blasted every window open, and Price quickly slung Soap over his back and carried him out of the immediate fire. As they approached the door to the cellar, Price turned and shouted, "Yuri! Open it!"

Soap furrowed his brows, as Price had demonstrated at least three times today, he was perfectly capable of kicking this door in. Why did he suddenly need help now? Why not have Yuri cover the back as they went down? He didn't have to wait long for an answer, since the second Yuri opened the door, Price grabbed him with his free hand, spun him around, and cracked his fist into Yuri's jaw. The resulting blow sent the Russian tumbling down the full flight of steps in an almost cartoonish fashion. Price didn't even wait for him to hit the bottom before starting down after him, pulling back out his pistol. Soap hung on Price's back, gawking in silence as Yuri smacked against the cellar floor.

"Soap trusted you..." Price growled, setting Soap down on the last step. "I thought I could too." He cocked the pistol and pointed it directly into Yuri's bleeding face and yelled, "So why, in the bloody hell, does Makarov know you?!"

This was it, exactly what Soap had been avoiding for months. Here was the freak out he anticipated. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. Before he could try and calm Price down, Yuri started talking, his words fumbled as he jumped to explain himself. He told them how he was by Makarov's side for many years, too many years, how he worked along side the terrorist and watched him spiral out of control after Zakhaev's death. In the end, he betrayed Makarov by trying to prevent the airport massacre a few months ago, and was left for dead. That explained a lot...

"Price... we need to leave," Soap finally said after Yuri finished his little story.

"Okay, Yuri. You bought yourself some time..." Price grabbed Yuri by the collar and forced him up, though never lowered the gun from his head. "For now."

Yuri nodded with grim acceptance of this, and he was let go. Price holstered his pistol and picked up Soap again so they could leave. It was a long walk down the tunnels until they reached the other end, the cellar of another house. Outside, the streets were clear. Just a nondescript tan car resting on the curb. Waiting at the top of the steps was Nikolai, who didn't so much as bat an eye at the battered up state both Soap and Yuri were in.

That was how they escaped. Almost all of them.

* * *

When they reached their little safe house, they finally had a chance to have Soap looked at by their medic. Price couldn't have been more relieved, considering the sort of hell his old charge looked like he'd been through. The right side of Soap's face was caked in blood from his eye which had swelled shut pretty quickly, and his right arm was full of wood and metal splinters along with being very clearly broken in at least a couple places. Price stayed close by while the field doctor cut away the ribbons of fabric that were left of Soap's coat sleeve to get a better look at the injuries. Without the cloth, it was readily apparent that the forearm was broken in a few spots and the elbow was shattered. Even after the wood and metal was all removed, the limb was pretty much a mangled mess; Soap could barely twitch his thumb, much less move his hand. For now the arm was bandaged up to keep it from freely bleeding.

If it wasn't for the saline drip, Price doubted Soap would be in nearly as sable a condition as he was now, since he lost at least a couple pints of blood during their escape. Veins were definitely ruptured. The medic shook his head. "There's no way I can save this..."

"Can't you at least try?" Price questioned.

"With what I have on hand? We don't have any of the supplies to fix this," was the flat answer. "He needs an actual hospital, not a few stitches and a cast. If this gets infected then he's pretty much dead."

Price opened his mouth to argue further, but Soap cut him off. "Do what you can."

The medic nodded. "Captain Price, could you please leave while I deal with this?"

"Can he stay? Just in case I can't keep still?" Soap asked quietly. "We don't have anesthetics..."

This request made the medic sigh. Seemed he was coming to the realization that there was no way to reasonably argue with them. 'Bout time. "Fine. Price can stay if he wants to help, but that's his choice."

"I'll do it," Price agreed, zero question. "Just tell me what you need me to do."

So began perhaps the longest hour of Price's life. The limb was cleaned up, and the medic broke out the suture and needles. Soap couldn't be given anything yet to deal with pain since all it would take was some blood thinners to cause him to bleed out like a garden hose. Instead he got the next best thing, a belt to bite on and Price offered his hand for him to squeeze. He had to lay back, and his arm was set out so the field doctor could have access to it.

Fifty or so stitches later, the medic pulled off the bloodied gloves and washed his hands. "I'm going to have to push the bone back in place before I can splint it. Be ready." He readied himself at Soap's arm, posed to pop it back, and had Price hold him down. "On the count of three. One. Two." There was no three, the medic shoved the bone back in without warning before Soap could brace himself. This tore a pain filled scream from the younger coupled with the sound of the bone grinding back into place.

From there, the medic bandaged and splinted the arm, as well as made a makeshift sling from some straps to stabilize his elbow. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it would hold for now.

With a relieved sigh, the medic gathered up his equipment to put it away. "Price, you should go rest. Thank you for your help. I can finish up here."

Price gave a hollow nod, patted Soap on the shoulder, and walked out of the room. Outside, he shut the door and sunk down to the floor, staring down at his feet.

"Is he going to be alright?" Nikolai approached with a cup full of steaming dark liquid and passed it to Price. He couldn't be sure whether it was coffee or tea, since it lacked any sort of smell.

"His arm's a mess..." Price told him, taking a cautious sip of the drink. It was black tea, or at least it almost was. Nikolai never could quite grasp brew times. "And I think his eye may be damaged too. If he can avoid an infection, then he'll live at least."

"Knowing him, he'll be moving around within the week," Nikolai replied with a clear attempt at humor. Last time Soap had been in critical condition, it was also because of Price. But then, he pulled through and was up and walking a week later, though he was constantly popping the stitches in the process. "Men like him don't go down easily."

Price glowered at the cup of tea. "I know..." It took a lot of willpower to force himself to stand again, to go to the little computer left out and start planning their next move. He'd finish this. He owed Soap that much. "Nikolai, tell Yuri to get his gear together. I've got to make a call."

* * *

In the days following, there were two definite developments concerning Soap's condition. First, that his right eye was damaged enough that he had trouble seeing out of it. The medic was hopeful that with some careful surgery done by someone far more capable than he was could possibly correct this problem. Though there remained the possibility that it could be beyond saving. Until either became clear, it had to be covered in bandages to keep it protected like the arm. The other thing was that Soap managed to lose a decent amount of blood over the course of his ordeal, making it damn near impossible for him to stay focused longer than a few minutes at a time, or even conscious for much longer than an hour tops before he passed out again.

Price could only be thankful that nothing got infected. There would've been no hope after that point. After attempting to track down Makarov alone, after watching the Delta squad they'd worked with in the past get left behind, he was tired. Physically and emotionally tired. He wasn't sure just how much more he could stand. A little dark thought in the back of his head reminded him that Soap could be dead right now. He had to ignore that the man's life was put in the balance for at least the third time now, that he may very well just wish he was dead anyways. Once this was all over, he would do his best to be there for him. Price felt he owed him that much.

How many times did Soap save his skin? How many times did he drag him through hell and watched him come on top fighting the whole way through? It was his decisions that led to this...

While Price sat there at Soap's bedside, helped him nurse water when he was responsive enough or coax him to eat as regularly as he could convince him, he tried to focus on the positive. MacMillian was doing everything in his power to clear their names. They'd have to go through a trial, sure, but they had their story. They also had the fact that they just helped end the bloody war on their side. War crimes... well, they were wanted criminals, the rules stop applying. It was also doubtful that anyone would be aware of how Waraabe died or something like that anyways. It was Shepherd's murder they'd want answers for, and Price could only think of one key piece of evidence they had that may sway the decision: that little journal Soap kept.

Soap had taken it out of his pocket and started some sketch a couple days ago, but his left hand was untrained and shaky. In his frustration, he chucked the book at the end of the cot and no one dared to lay a finger on the little black book since. Price gave it one look, picked it up, and pulled the red band over the opposite cover to keep it shut. He wouldn't look through it, not now. He wouldn't take it either. It was Soap's decision whether he wanted to show it to anyone, and he almost never did. Price respected that, and set the book down on the end table beside the cot in case the younger ever decided he wanted to try again.

As Price settled back down in the metal folding chair, he heard two knocks on the door frame and looked to see Nikolai. "You've been sitting here a long time, my friend."

"Remember how you said he'd be up in a week? I don't think he's there yet." Price said, a hint of remorse in his tone.

"You know, I used to know someone in the Soviets. Tall, strong man by the name of Sasha. In Afghanistan, he almost didn't need a gun, could just wrestle anyone to the ground." Nikolai grabbed one folded chair left propped against the wall and flicked it open to seat himself. "One day though, a grenade took off his leg. He said, 'Nikolai, comrade, give me a crutch and an AK, I will finish this fight just to spite them.' Instead, I had him man my helicopter's mini gun."

Price gave his friend a strange look as he told this little story. "What's your point?"

"Soap reminds me a lot of him, and I think he'll be just as stubborn. Once he recovers enough, you'll see."

* * *

Soap woke up late at night, it was the first real bit of clarity he had in a while. Price had fallen asleep in a chair by his bedside with a blanket wrapped over his shoulders (probably by Nikolai, the mother hen). Soap looked over the IV line and carefully bit the tube to pull it off and set the end aside. Then, as quietly as he could, he slipped off the cot and stood up.

Light headedness and wavering vision made him have to wait much longer than he would have liked before he could move. Then, with one step, his knees buckled from weakness and he hit the ground with a thump. He held his breath for fear that Price heard it, but as seconds turned to minutes, he heard no change in the man's breathing. He was in the clear. Relieved, he stood back up and made his way to the door. Outside was the common room, with Nikolai sprawled across an old couch with a laptop rested on his stomach. Only the light from his plain text screensaver illuminated his face.

As far as familiarity goes, Soap knew the safe house decently enough. This was the same one in the Czech Republic that they stayed at before going into Prague. Since he knew the layout, he also knew where the bathroom was, as well as where he stashed his meager bag of belongings that he hauled from one place to the next. The bag was pushed under a cot. Of course there were also seven or so sleeping men in that room. Soap could only hope that the snoring would disguise his approach.

He crept up to the third cot to the left end and knelt down. Quietly, he patted underneath until his fingers found the rough material of the bag strap. Soap grinned at his minor victory and slid the bag out and picked through it for a clean change of clothes. They had removed his gear when they got here, took off his ruined coat after his arm was stitched and bandaged, cut off the destroyed sleeve of his shirt. Beyond that, they didn't do much of anything about his clothes, probably a mix of him not being helpful and them not wanting to remove the IV drip.

"...Soap...?"

The voice made him freeze. Although the person was well in his blind spot, MacTavish recognized Yuri's gruff voice. Soap slowly turned his head to see the Russian in question laying on the nearby cot. A whole mess of bandages wrapped around his abdomen. No one told him that the guy had been wounded. Still though, he couldn't have him wake everyone else up. Soap hushed him and quickly retreated with his clothes. The best he could hope for was that Yuri was too out of it to make sense of the situation, maybe not even remember it in the morning.

Soap shut the door with trained care and turned around to find himself face to face with Nikolai. Startled, Soap took a step back and smacked into the door. He cringed at the noise it made. So much for his stealthy approach. "Nikolai, what are you doing up?"

"I can ask you the same question," Nikolai deadpanned. His eyes went down to the shirt and pants draped over Soap's arm, then back up at him. "I heard you leave the other room. You shouldn't be out of bed."

"I'm fine," Soap insisted. Of course, his lack of a fuctioning arm made that claim harder to pass off. He slid away from the door and took a few weary steps towards the bathroom. "Really. Just let me clean myself up, then I'll go straight back to bed, okay?"

Nikolai couldn't look more skeptical, he stood there with his arms crossed and his I-really-don't-like-your-idea frown that Soap became very accustomed to. "I will be here, so just call if you need something."

Soap sighed with relief. "Thanks." He then hurried to the bathroom, a touch clumsy on his feet, but he managed not to trip or anything. Once inside, he dropped his clothes on the ground and removed the sling. With it gone, he worked on wrestling his shirt off with one arm. The only real struggle there was getting it up his torso, but once it was above his left elbow, he managed to flip it over his head and off his right arm. Soap paused to stare at the bandaged limp, there were angry red lines running up his arm and it hurt like crazy. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, but he swore the pain felt a whole lot worse than what it probably was.

He feared what he'd be told when they got back to England and he got some real medical attention. If there wasn't anything they could do about his arm or his eye, then what sort of life did he even have to go back to? His dad and him had a falling out a few years ago, so the old man wasn't someone he could lean on. The little apartment he used to have probably got handed off to somebody else by now, since he hadn't been around to pay about two months worth of rent. The idea that the government didn't reclaim his assets when he became a wanted criminal was laughable. Here he was, a decorated soldier, now prospective homeless person. He may as well be dead.

Soap went to the sink and took in the sight of his very scruffy face in the mirror, his eye covered in bandages. The other eye was slightly red and glossy with forming tears...

Frustrated, he punched the sink and then hastily rubbed his eye. Crying wasn't allowed right now. He needed to focus on the task he set out to do. He picked up the cheap razor off the edge of the sink and did his best to mow down his beard with his off hand. This resulted a couple of tiny cuts, but he dismissed them and washed off the hair before putting the razor back. He then did his best to wash himself in the sink, after deciding that showering wouldn't be possible without taking off the bandages, which he couldn't bring himself to do.

Ten minutes later, he was relatively clean. So began the fight to get on his clean clothes. The pants were the hardest part for him, since he could only tug up one side at a time and they'd slip back down if he let go. It took some artful shimmying to get them on. Then there was the shirt. It was the only T shirt he had on had after the other got ripped to shreds in Afghanistan, as well as the only thing he could figured he could get on. He had to get his injured arm in first, then pull it over his head and slip his left arm in the other hole. After that, he put back on the sling, proud he managed to do this and keep his arm in the same position.

Soap left the bathroom with his dirty clothes in hand, only to find that not only was Nikolai waiting in the common room, but so was Price. On top of that, in the time that he took to fix himself up, one of the two made tea. It was three in the god damn morning and they were having tea...

The sound of the shutting door caused Price to look up. There was something akin to smile that found its way to his face. "It's good to see you up, son."

"See? Told you he wouldn't stay down long," Nikolai remarked, the earlier seriousness that he showed Soap was far from present now.

Soap looked from one to the other while he threw the very much destroyed shirt he had on previously in the trash bin. Two shirts too many he had to trash, as far as he was concerned. "You picked a weird time to have a brew."

"It's tea time somewhere." Price patted the seat nearby. "How about you sit down and have some."

As tempting as it was to go back to his cot and hide under the covers, lament over his injuries, Soap ended up sitting down with them. Price poured him a cup, which he didn't go to drink straight away. Instead he rubbed the mug's handle with his thumb and watched the other twos' hands, how Nikolai clasped his own cup with both and Price held his at the rim and kept his off hand free to move as he talked. It was something he didn't notice before.

"Right, Soap?"

The younger blinked, realizing both were staring at him now. He managed to space out through the whole exchange. "Sorry, could you run that by me again?"

"Concerning Yuri, do you think he's any sort of risk at this point," Price asked. "We just need to be sure that we're all on the same page."

"He explained himself. As long as he doesn't let his vendetta against Makarov get in the way, he's fine." It didn't mean Soap actually trusted Yuri, but he would owe him some benefit of doubt at least.

"Alright. Good. Then there shouldn't be any problems, Nikolai."

Nikolai looked visibly relieved. He took a generous sip of tea and shook his head. "I am glad to hear it."

Soap returned the smile, though it wasn't nearly as genuine as he wished it was. "So, got any plans once this all blows over?"

"I have some things arranged," Nikolai answered. "This will not be the last you have seen of me."

Price gave an indifferent shrug. "When I see Makarov finally dead, I'm leaving the service. Seems like a good enough note to end on."

"But what about after that?" Soap asked.

"Mm..." He rubbed at his beard. "Figure out what a man in his mid forties can still do with his life? How about you?"

Soap frowned. "I'm not sure..."

"Well if you ever need a place to shack up, I've got a spare bedroom," Price offered. "I don't want to find you begging by the motorway."

He definitely remembered the room. Once upon a four years ago, Price and his wife split up. Too many disputes. She took their kid and the car and was just gone. He was left with the house. Soap ended up helping pack his kid's stuff to send when Ex-Mrs. Price found a place to stay. After the separation, Price started spending a lot more time on base.

"Thanks, I might have to take you up on that offer."

* * *

Towards the end of October, the official treaty resolving the war was signed, and MacMillan collected them from their safe house. It was the first time in a short while since Soap had been on a helicopter, since Nikolai's were shot down one by one over the course of the war. The feeling brought on a whole new level of anxiety, especially as the troops who came to get them wouldn't stop staring at mess of bandages that hid his arm.

Price stayed close by, hanging towards his blind side. It'd taken about a week before their small group caught on to the fact that anyone aside from Price or Nikolai being to his immediate right tended to startle Soap half to death. It made sense, not only could he not see whoever was there, but he had to waste precious seconds turning his body to react if there was danger. The only sign that Price was there was his shoulder brushing against his. It was the smallest bit of physical contact, but it was just to make his being there a little less likely to spook him.

"Captain Price," one of the soldiers said, "Captain MacTavish. It's an honor."

The statement made Soap look him up and down. The man had an SAS patch. It took a second longer to recognize this person as Walcroft. "It's been a while."

Walcroft nodded. "Apparently. You look... different." He had to stop himself from directly commenting on the makeshift eye patch and the stump.

"Seeing as we're not being handcuffed or anything," Price inquired, "I take it you don't think we're much of a threat."

"Why should we? You may not know it, but we've had about a dozen operators from the 141 come out of hiding on their own and seek out the authorities just to explain what happened. Two of them, Aaron Hale and Justin Long, both claimed to witness General Shepherd execute a couple of your men."

Soap couldn't exactly make sense of his mixed feelings towards this. On one hand, Archer and Toad along with a few more of his men survived. However, they were witnesses to Ghost and Roach's murder... He couldn't even begin to imagine what it looked like, or how dignified a death they were given. "Did they provide any specifics?"

Walcroft gave a slow nod, and knitted his hands together on his lap. "Apparently one of them was hit by a mortar on the way to the evac site. The field commander dragged him to the General's pave low and he shot them both. After that..." There was a dark look in his eye. "... Afterwards, his men doused both of them in gasoline and lit them on fire. By the time either of the two could reach them, it was too late."

If only he could have done more back then. A single knife to the eye was too clean a death for Shepherd. "I see..."

Price patted his shoulder and responded with, "When Shepherd turned on us, our force was split up. Some of our men we had survived the initial betrayal, but we were sure that the other group was completely wiped out. It's good to hear that's not the case."

In that moment, Walcroft dispelled the gloom around him. "On the upside, you both have a strong case in your favor. From the sound of things, the Special Service Director's fighting to get the charges dropped."

"That's all we could hope for. Thank you, Walcroft."

* * *

Just as Walcroft predicted, the higher ups were doing just about everything in their power to get it over with as painlessly as possible, much to Price's relief. There was the small setback with the man who handed out the charges of treason, global terror, and "violent acts against the government" being deader than a door nail. An offense summary couldn't be give. More over, the severity of the charges meant they had to be tried by the Martial Court. Over the course of a week, it was court hearing after hearing. The matter was pretty controversial with them being a pair of the most wanted war criminals, so the press scrounged for any details they could get.

Right when they landed in England, Soap had his arse packed and shipped to the nearest hospital (not entirely of his own accord). There was a whole barrage of X-Rays that had to be taken, eye examinations, so on and so forth... About a couple days in though, Soap ended up with a fever as a result of infection which had set into both his eye and his arm. Price found himself spending almost all his time either in that court room, visiting the hospital, or crashed with Nikolai and Yuri in some tiny apartment that was really was only suited for a single person. He didn't have any time to go to his own house, or rather he forgot to in all the chaos. In a way, he almost envied Soap. At least his being hospitalized excused him from actually attending the court meetings. Price ended up having to speak on both their behalf, claiming that the younger Captain was acting under his command, just so they wouldn't try to drag his arse out of the hospital. It wasn't exactly a lie.

At the end of that very stressful week, the charges were dropped and the Special Forces Director, Major General MacMillan, issued a public statement on the matter. Price stayed to watch his small speech, and afterwards threw on his coat to leave. Today, the doctors would be discussing what they'd be doing with Soap in terms of treatment outside of their insane amount of antibiotics they had him on.

Before he could get far, his old CO caught up to him. "Oi, John, where are you going in such a hurry?"

It was enough to make Price stop and turn. He offered MacMillan a salute. "I'm going to see Soap in the hospital."

"Ah, I see. How's the lad doing?" As he asked this, MacMillan pulled on his own coat and stepped around him to reach for the door.

"Infection's made him completely blind in his right eye," Price told him. He felt a chill as he recalled Soap's reaction to the news; he simply shut down and stared blankly at the floor. "But they think that once he gets his strength back, they can maybe surgically repair it. There's also his arm... It's not looking too good, Mac."

With a nod, MacMillan let Price out first and stepped into the chilled November air behind him. "I hope the best for him. In the meantime, we're going to catch your man and bring him down."

"If you find him, give me a call. I got a score to settle with him."

"I'll do you one better. You can help us track him down. If anyone knows how he operates, it's you."

Price gave him a grin. "I'd be my pleasure." With that, he got to his car. "Thanks for everything."

MacMillan smiled, causing the small wrinkles around his eyes to deepen, and pulled Price into a hug. "I'm just glad to have you back, son. Now you take good care of your charge, he'll need it."

Price stood there, stunned at the warmth of the action and his words. Twenty years ago, he carried his Captain to safety. It wasn't the first time he stuck his neck out for the man, but it was the last time in the field. MacMillan did more to help him in return than he ever cared to admit. Now, it was Price's turn to watch after his own man who went through hell for him. It was his turn to be that supporting figure. He pushed back the prickling tears and returned his CO's hug. "I will."

* * *

 _And that's the beginning. I know this is super long and jumps all over the place, but the idea came and I just had to get it down. What I wanted to establish was what would have changed in the mission since Soap's injuries were different, but the chapter just kept getting longer and longer and I didn't find a stopping point until the end of the court case. Originally I was gonna have Soap's arm get amputated just after the mission, but for length reasons, I'm moving that to the next chapter and fortunately won't need to actually write it out this time. Oh well. I look forward to writing the next chapter!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for the feed back! I wasn't sure how well this would be received and it's definitely good to know that some people find the concept interesting. I was also surprised to hear that the idea of a more fatherly look at Price and Soap's relationship isn't all that explored. I've seen my fair share of people pairing the two up for romance, but a lot of times those don't have much room to explore the more canon aspects of their feelings after love and attraction. There's just so much to about them that actually shows in canon material that I just can't be bothered to make this romantic._

* * *

 **Hereford, UK, 1st November**

Nikolai prodded at the hissing pile of eggs in his skillet. Still runny, they'd need more time. Eggs never were a favorite of his, but considering his refrigerator only had a near expired carton of milk, two (scratch that, zero) eggs, and five or so slices of bread, his options were limited. If Price were present, he'd probably suggest french toast, but that was more work for food he didn't like and he was hungry now. Yuri could deal with toast.

He glowered at Yuri, who was still very much passed out on his couch with a bottle of Imperia (more specifically, _Nikolai's_ bottle of Imperia that Soap gifted to him) left abandoned on the floor nearby. Friend or not, Yuri made for boring company on a good day and terrible otherwise. Last night he leaned towards the latter, since he decided it'd be a good idea to get shitfaced and then question Price on why he punched him down _a flight of stairs_. Apparently this happened and no one cared to inform Nikolai, much to his chagrin. Suffice to say, Price threatened to punch him down another one and Nikolai had to step in and placate him before Yuri be thrown out of the cramped apartment. He'd need to lock away the alcohol from now on.

The mechanical ring of his phone pulled his attention off both his cooking and his comrade. He rested the spatula against the rim of the pan and answered with a curt, "Who is this?"

"Nikolai? It's Price, I'm at the hospital."

" _да_ , I thought so," Nikolai replied. Something about the man's voice though sparked worry in him; he sounded on edge. "Did something happen?"

Sirens and car engines blared in the background on Price's end, making it a little difficult to hear him. "It's Soap. They're amputating his arm."

A brick of lead just settled in Nikolai's stomach. "Did they say why?"

"Yeah, it got infected again and he's barely recovered from the first one. At this rate, it'll kill him." Price took a deep breath away from the receiver before adding, "He's so out of his head right now, I don't even know if he's aware that they're going to do it. Apparently they can't get a hold of any next of kin to get permission, so it's being handled as an emergency measure."

"It is probably for the best, my friend." Nikolai didn't want to bring up the fact that the arm being cut off was also in extremely bad shape and probably beyond repair anyways. The thought had been there since he saw it himself back at the safe house, but he held his tongue.

"I know, Nikolai. I know." A thump over the phone. "It's just... bloody frustrating that I can't do anything to help him right now."

"Price, listen, he will likely be in the hospital up to two more weeks before he's discharged. There's plenty we can do for him in that time, okay?"

"Nikolai..."

"Okay?"

"..." In that silence, Nikolai worried that Price may have hung up. It wasn't until he heard a very muffled sound on the other end that he was sure that wasn't the case. "Okay..."

Nikolai took a deep breath, only to find himself taking in a very smokey smell. " _Ебать меня!_ I have to go, my friend!" He quickly hung up and got the skillet off the stove top along with the blackened eggs and partly melted plastic spatula. He gave a weighted sigh.

He really, really hated eggs...

* * *

The sight of Soap's drug induced antics were nothing new to Price; he'd seen plenty of it after the oil tanker explosion on the bridge, and again when they left the safe house in India. Any bit of pain medication and there was zero hope of him being remotely functional. Unsurprisingly, for the few days following the amputation, the doctor requested he keep his visits brief. The less excitement the better, they insisted. That didn't stop Price from having small exchanges with him, as disjointed and looping as they were. None of those chats held any sort of weight to them, since Soap seemed to forget them minutes after they'd happen. It wasn't until after they lowered the dose of morphine that the dopey face seemed to vanish, leaving him worn down and tired. He was under stress and it was making it hard to sleep, then his lack of sleep would make him more stressed and cause night terrors. The doctor wanted to sedate him, but Soap firmly denied him. It was the most he'd talk about his condition for the first few days. Not a word about his arm was uttered from him.

At least, not until some days afterwards. "I can't believe it's gone..."

The statement felt like a stab to Price's chest. He couldn't pick him up and tell him to get back on his feet, that he could keep fighting. The fight was over for him now. "I know, son."

Soap thumbed at the blanket, something he'd been doing a lot lately if some of the loosened fibers were any indication. "Price? I don't know what to do."

"Pardon?"

"When I get out of here, I don't have anywhere I can go. I don't want to move back in with my dad, but I don't think I have much a choice." Soap stopped picking at the covers and rubbed his dark ringed eye. "After the medical expenses, I doubt I'll be even able to afford the shittiest apartment available."

Price arched his brow, which vanished under the brim of his hat. "My offer still stands. You can shack up with me when they let you out of here."

"I wouldn't want to put you out."

"You're not putting me out," Price insisted. "I was meaning to look for a flatmate anyways, and you keep your space tidy."

This elicited a soft chuckle from his former charge. Once upon a time, Price made a joke about how his organization and cleanliness was what started his nickname, though Soap always claimed that it was for a different reason which he never cared to elaborate on. This became an inside joke very, very quickly between them. "If you say so. Thanks, Price."

"It's no problem. Besides, maybe you could help me sort some intel with Kingfish when you get out of here." Adjusting his hat, Price glancing towards the doorway as one of the nurses stepped in. The shift of attention was a signal to Soap that someone else arrived and so he turned his head to check as well.

"Good afternoon, John, how you feeling?" The nurse asked with a wide smile as she quickly glanced over the monitor reading.

Soap seemed to watch her hand move with the pen against her clipboard, as if he could decipher what she was writing without ever seeing it himself. "Fine."

She set down the clipboard and lightly clapped her hands. "That's good. So I'm here to change your bandages."

There couldn't be a more exasperated look that played on his face. "Alright..."

With a happy sound, she leaned in to peel the bandage from his eye. The whites were a veiny red, the pupil was seemingly missing from his pale blue iris, and the upper eyelid was a touch swollen, causing it to be narrower than the other. It looked a whole lot less bad than the last time Price saw it. She carefully cleaned up the area with a cloth and administered a couple eye drops before applying a clean patch. From there she went to untie the back of his medical gown to have unrestricted access to his stump. Soap seemed fairly aware of this and scooted forward a little to make it easier. He sat in complete silence with the gown hanging off his other shoulder, watching every little action the nurse's hands made as they unraveled the bandages. The discoloration and swelling had died down significantly. All in all, a definite improvement. The area was washed up and patted dry before being freshly wrapped back up.

The nurse folded her hands in front of her, no less jovial than before. "Everything's healing up brilliantly. I'm pretty sure we'll be able to take you off the IV soon with how well you're recovering."

"That's some good news," Price chimed in while Soap fixed his hospital gown back on. "When do you think he'll be ready to leave?"

"Hm... That's more a question for his doctor, but I think at the rate he's going, he'll be good to go within a week."

Price smiled and stood up now. "Thank you, miss."

Soap glanced his way, either having heard the sound of the chair or saw movement from the corner of his eye. "You're leaving now?"

"I've got some things I have to settle. I'll be back tomorrow though." Price gave Soap a light pat on the shoulder before throwing on his coat and heading out the door. He had a certain project in mind.

* * *

Over the course of two days, Price spent a fair amount of his time at his own house. The last time he'd stepped foot in here was at least a month before they left for Operation Kingfish, three years ago. As a result, the whole place was in need of some work. There was some staining on the ceiling and damage to the wood floor in the living room as a result of the roof having sprung a leak. Any sort of house plants either long died or, in the curious case of his spider plant, became an overgrown monster that split the pot in half through a crack that'd been on the bottom. On top of that, the building was loaded with cobwebs and dust on just about every surface, making it a nightmare for allergies - not that Price was allergic to dust, or much else.

By some miracle, his landlady didn't just evict him for abandoning the place and not paying rent in so long. The crotchety old woman was just about ready to, but they ended up striking a deal that if Price could fix the place back up himself and add an additional sum on top of his rent until he paid off the missing amount he owed, then he could keep living there. Not the best deal he'd ever been given, but he couldn't deny that it was fair all things considered.

Nikolai, and by extension Yuri, helped him repair the roof and replace the damaged floorboards. Over a couple decades ago, Price used to help his old man, a carpenter, with work until he joined the service. Rusty as he was, the experience was still there. Heck, Yuri managed to make himself useful for a change, since he seemed intimately familiar with roof work. Nikolai may have needed more help than he could offer, but he definitely made an effort and offered the suggestion that Yuri just worry about the roof while Price focus on the floor to avoid bickering between them. In record time, the roof was back in functioning order and the floor was no longer a warped mess.

The second day was spent cleaning. It must have been a strange sight for the neighbors to see all the windows wide open mid autumn to help vent out the dust, and Price with half his face covered in a cloth beating the dirt out of cushions on the front steps. Five dead plants were cut down and committed to the soil under the shrubs by the street, and the spider plant was temporarily relocated outside. He worked from six in the morning all the way to midnight, stopping only around midday for a couple hours to visit Soap and get himself some lunch. Once he finished, he simply lumbered to the couch and crashed for four or so hours.

The fact that he'd been busting his arse to make the house habitable again didn't go unnoticed by Soap, who took note of the expanse of bandages on Price's hands and arms the following day. Price waved off the younger's concerns with a simple, "They're just scratches, mate."

Day Three, Price washed all the dishes and whatever clothes and bedding he had, picked up a modest amount of groceries, and attended to his overgrown spider plant. A new, larger pot was in order. This only took him about a couple hours, and after that, he made his bed and promptly passed out till 16:00 when he was met with a ring on the doorbell. The visitor in question turned out to be his landlady, who came along with a camera and a clipboard. Price gave a tired blink as he loomed over her in the doorway. "Did you need something, ma'am?"

She gave his hip a small whack with her clipboard, enough to prompt him to step back, and saw herself in. "Yes, I need to assess the damages. Where's that leak you mentioned?"

Price coughed into his fist. "Actually, I already got that handled, Mrs. Eckley. The roof's been fixed and the damaged floorboards were replaced."

This statement made her pause, turn back to him, and plant both her hands on her hips. If she was a full fifty years younger and a foot taller, Price would have found the stance a tad intimidating. "You know how I've told you not to mumble, boy. Speak up!"

By no means did he _mumble_. It was probably just her hearing aid acting up again. Regardless, he repeated himself a bit louder for her, adding, "There's nothing wrong with the house now."

"Nonsense! It's been vacant for years, I still have to inspect the place!" The landlady proceeded to go through his house, checking every little thing that could possibly be checked while Price tailed after her. The whole way, she grumbled out the items listed on some inspection form to herself. "When the bloody hell is your wife and that David boy coming home anyways?"

Price stood stiffly in the hall, watching her poke at the smoke detector with her cane. "Daniel. And we're divorced."

She planted the cane on the floor with a solid thud. "Can't say I blame her," she said and checked another thing off. "Alright, Johnny, seems you managed to make your house presentable. How long'd it take you to pull that off?"

"A day, ma'am," he answered, trying his damnedest not to linger on the harsh comment or the nickname she had for him since he moved into this place roughly fifteen years ago.

"Sounds like a load of bollocks to me. No way you managed that."

"I did though. Had a couple of my mates help, but we really did get it done in that time." Price crossed his arms.

She scoffed and hobbled on past him towards the door. "If you're that good, maybe I should consider hiring you to deal with repairs for my tenants instead of those useless gits in town. Takes them a week and I still get complaints..."

"I might be willing to if you wanted to drop the extra fee off my rent," Price replied.

Mrs. Eckley gave a short cackle. "You might be a smarter bastard than I gave you credit for." She opened the door and turned to him. "Alright, anything else I need to know, Johnny?"

"Hm. I've got someone who's moving in here with me, if that's relevant."

"New girlfriend?"

"No."

"Then as long as he's not hiding crack in the walls, I don't care." She then left.

Price lingered in the hall and shook his head. He'd forgotten the kind of pain her inspections usually were. At least it was over with. He could relax for a while, get a proper night's sleep. Tomorrow, Soap was gonna get discharged from the hospital. It was something he looked forward to. When his wife and son left, he started staying on base more often. It wasn't so much bad memories, but rather the uncomfortable silence the house carried when he was alone. As harsh as he came across, he still needed human contact as much as any other person.

* * *

More often than not, Price and Nikolai visited Soap in the hospital. There were, however, a few times when the visitor wasn't either of the two. MacMillan came in a couple times, and showed MacTavish that he didn't have enough people in his life who possessed the odd sense of humor the old Major General did. Walcroft visited at one point, though his recollection of that one was very fuzzy as it was just after the surgery. The cold autumn air stung his eye in the best way when he was finally discharged from the hospital. He could finally dress like a normal human being and less like a lab experiment, walk without a nurse accompanying him, or any of that shit. Sure, he had pick up a few bottles of different medications the doctor prescribed at the drug store and there was also the therapist meeting he was "strongly recommended" to go to in about a week, but the pharmacy was just a block away and he didn't need to think about the appointment until he had to go. Freedom never felt so sweet.

Not even giving it a second thought, he walked down to the pharmacy himself and picking up his meds. If there was one thing he could thankful for, it was that this wasn't the pharmacy in Birmingham. Those guys knew his face and there was some git at the register who always gave him funny looks. None of that here, he was a stranger; or about as stranger as you could get after your name's been dragged on the news for months as a war criminal and then heavily discussed following the announcement that charges were dropped. People tended to be weary and that was fine by him. As he left the store, his phone went off. "Aye? This is MacTavish."

"Soap, where the bloody hell are you?"

He winced at the tone Price gave him. Right... Price probably expected him to wait back at the hospital to be picked up. "I'm at the pharmacy."

"Alright. Just sit tight." The phone gave a small beep and Soap was left standing in front of the drug store with a paper bag in hand. He sighed and considered going back in and picking up some cigars while he waited. Would nicotine interact with anything he was supposed to be taking? Eh... he wasn't a doctor and he couldn't care less.

Out of seemingly nowhere, a hand smacked the bag from his hand. Bright orange pill bottles scattered in the parking lot, rolling in all different directions. Stunned, Soap didn't have a change to react before the hoodie clad teenager responsible rushed away while a pack of other high school boys howled with laughter from the curb. Immediately afterwards, a car screeched into the parking lot and a man leaped from the passenger seat to chase away the kids.

 _You've got to be kidding me..._ Soap regarded the scene with a slow blink as he processed Nikolai's all to familiar Russian cursing as the foreigner booked it down the sidewalk. All Soap could do was kneel down to collect the four separate bottles off the ground. "Fucking kids."

"You alright?"

He immediately looked up from the ground to find Price crouching down to pick up a couple of bottles that rolled a little ways away. Soap burned with embarrassment now. How much of that did his Captain see? "I'm fine. No harm done."

Price helped him get all the bottle in the bag and handed it back to him. Some uncharacteristic look crossed his face that Soap couldn't exactly place; the small down curve of his lips indicated something more rueful or mourning, but his beard made it difficult to discern what sort of an expression he was making half the time. "What was that all about anyways?"

"Hell if I know," Soap shrugged, gripping the bag a little tighter now.

Nikolai came jogging back, hardly seeming phased by his sprint. Those boys must've ran like hell away from the 190.5 cm tall, screaming Russian. " _Ублюдки_ jumped into a truck and drove away. Are you okay, my friend?"

Soap reigned in his internal frustration towards the question. They were just trying to help. "I'm fine, Nikolai."

"If you say so. Alright, lads, get in." Price went and opened the driver door and slipped back into his nondescript compact vehicle.

Ordinarily Soap would have sat behind Price since the man tended to pull the seat up to account for his shorter legs, but that would have meant sitting with the door to his right. Given the choice between leg room and having the outside of the car be in his field of vision, he opted for the latter. Crunched behind Nikolai's seat, Soap tapped at his propped up knees. "So where are we headed?"

"My place. You've got to get settled in." Price started the car and did a tight U turn in the parking lot to get them back into the street. In that moment, Soap caught a glance from his Captain through the rear view mirror. "Before you ask, your bag's already there. Nobody's touched anything in it."

"You seem to attract trouble even at home," Nikolai commented.

The town passed by outside the window, and Soap watched it with a small frown. "I guess I do."

After that, Soap dropped from the conversation and occupied himself by glancing over the different pill bottles and their instructions. Antibiotics (though he'd be done with those really soon), painkillers, a sleep aid... Things were so much easier to manage when they were on the run. No prescriptions needing to be taken once in the morning and again at night, or two at noon, or any nonsense like that. They didn't have the resources. Instead when he was recovering from his stab wound, it was a matter of sucking it up and resting if it hurt too much to do anything productive. If he could go through that, maybe he could skip the painkillers and swap them out for some over the counter aspirin instead.

Soon enough, they parked on the curb in front of a semi-familiar grey home. Price's house didn't look all that different since the last time he'd seen it. Once upon a time, the building must have been a dream home, but now it simply looked tired. At the same time, it felt a whole hell of a lot more inviting than the cramped apartment complex he grew up in. Price strolled up to the front door and fished out his key to let both Soap and Nikolai in. "Do you remember your way around, Soap?"

"Aye." It was hard to forget when the place consisted of a small hallway and five rooms total. He got maybe two steps in before Price stopped him.

"Shoes off."

That was definitely not a rule last time he'd been here, but he decided not to argue with him and stomped down on the heels of his combat boots to force them off. They were left by the welcome mat beside two near identical pairs of military grade boots. The only way to tell them apart was by the fact that Price had dainty ass feet in comparison and Nikolai's shoes were definitely older but less damaged than either of theirs.

The three of them walked down the hall, and it was clear to Soap that some serious cleaning must have been done recently, since the house smelled of citrus and detergent. It didn't come as any sort of surprise, especially not after seeing Price's hands a couple days ago. They came to a stop at the end of the hall, where Price nodded to the washroom door. "You can throw your scripts in the medicine cabinet if you want, I'm going to go make some tea."

"Thanks." Soap looked down at the bag that still hung in his fingers. He ultimately came to the conclusion that, no, he wouldn't throw them in the cabinet and would instead keep them in the nightstand or somewhere else. "Is my bag in the guest room?" There hadn't been any sign of it in the hall or the living room when they passed it.

Price was already in the kitchen filling a kettle with water. "It's not a guest room anymore."

Soap nodded and turned away from the kitchen to go to the room in question, literally just to his right. It was Price's son's room before, but Price ended up referring to it strictly as the guest room after that on the rare occasions he actually spoke of his house. It didn't look a whole lot different since the last time Soap had seen it either: bare, tan walls with a wide window directly across from the door, a bed with its white covers pulled up over the pillow, an empty dresser tucked to the right and a desk off in the far left corner. It was left simple with no clear occupant in mind, not unlike the quarters on base. His bag sat on the floor beside the dresser, and seemed to have a whole lot less dirt caked to it than it did last time he saw it.

For the next few minutes, the ex-Captain silently put his things away in what he struggled to call his room. This task seemed to drag on as he had to constantly work around his lack of an arm. Objects had to be put down before he could open things, or he held them in his teeth, he couldn't get a handle of folding what little clothes he had to put away, so they all ended up haphazardly tossed into the dresser. His journal, which found its way to the very bottom of the old knapsack, was discarded on the desk.

"The tea's ready," came Nikolai's voice at the door, effectively cutting off his train of thought. There was a long pause before he asked, "Do you need a minute?"

"Please," Soap forced out as evenly as he could. He didn't dare turn around until he heard the door click shut. It'd probably be another five or six before someone would come to check on him again. All he needed was a minute to get his head on straight with all this development. When Price poked his head five minutes later, Soap composed himself and put on his best smile. The very same one he mastered after they lost Mac, after Gaz and Griggs were killed... Smile enough and everyone would believe it at some point.

* * *

Just one look at someone was all it took for Price to rattle off a small list of words to describe them. Nikolai, for example, was sincere and easily attached. If he were neither of these then he wouldn't have stayed around them for as long and as faithfully as he did. Soap was loyal, selfless even, but he was also guarded and cunning. In an instant, Price watched Soap raise a mask to hide his vulnerability. As much as it hurt to see him so closed off around him after all the hell they went through, he understood that was his normal response when things went wrong. He'd fake it until it blew over or he'd crack under the pent up stress. Regardless which one it ended up being, Price knew that Soap would talk about the problem when he was ready to.

They made conversation in the kitchen over tea, and Soap was able to smile and laugh along with them. It was a complete 180 from the car ride. If this hadn't been how Soap reacted to his stab wound after they took down Shepherd, it would have been cause for concern.

"So where the bloody hell's Yuri anyways? I haven't seen him since we flew in." Soap asked at one point.

Nikolai coughed into his fist. "Sick with a hangover. He does not take inactivity well."

"Please tell me he didn't drink through your Imperia stash..." Soap grumbled. A few years ago, Soap had scrounged up three large vodka bottles for him as an overdue thank you after one too many demanding missions. Whatever English Nikolai knew flew out the window that day; he kept on stammering in Russian for a solid four minutes.

"No, but he has gotten into it. I may need to lock it all away before I get evicted on a noise complaint."

"Or before I throw him down another staircase," Price deadpanned behind the lip of his cup.

"Why did you do that again...?" Nikolai wondered, rubbing his forehead.

As tempting as it was to bring up the fact that Soap threw Yuri under the bus in the first place, Price decided that he wouldn't get into it. "He got under my skin." It wasn't exactly a lie; they mixed about as well as oil and water. Both of them were two completely different kinds of serious that managed to get on the other's nerves. Price was a deep thinker, admittedly a little paranoid, but he knew when to be harsh and when to pull back. Yuri didn't seem to have an off switch for his seriousness but rather two settings: silent and aggressive. If it weren't for the fact they both knew and respected Nikolai, Yuri probably would have screamed at Price for making a joke, and Price would have punched Yuri off a five story building.

"Got to admit, it was a very impressive punch," Soap chimed in, taking a generous sip of tea.

"It wasn't that amazing," Price shrugged.

Soap frowned and set the cup down. "He _flew_ down that entire stairwell."

The discussion quickly turned to whether Yuri's fall could be classified as flying exactly. Simply put, Nikolai took this a bit too literally on account of English being a second language and pointed out that people can't fly, and they agreed that Yuri more or less bounced since he must have hit three or so steps on his way down. All laughing at his expense aside, they finished their tea and worked on getting dinner set up. During that whole process, Nikolai expressed exasperation about having to go home to check on Yuri (make sure he didn't drown his own vomit or bust his head open on the toliet), which prompted Price to offer letting him stay the night for his own sanity's sake. The Russian wholeheartedly accepted the offer and they all agreed that they could work on making sense of intel as a team.

They all gathered in the living room with their dinner of plain spaghetti and Price got out a laminated map and all the info that MacMillan bumped their way, making for an interesting assortment on his coffee table. For a couple hours, they mulled over it all, with Soap stepping out at one point to take his meds. Half an hour after that and the youngest amongst them was passed out on the couch, his head buried in the arm rest. Nikolai gave Soap's shoulder a curious prod, something which didn't get so much as a twitch from him. "He must have been very tired..."

"Or he took his sleep aid," Price guessed, looking back down at the map and all their dry erase markings. Ordinarily Price let Soap handle the marker, but he was nowhere near as neat with his left hand and couldn't hold down the map. After about five or so attempts to draw a simple circle, Price took the marker back and did it himself. "Hm... What do you think the odds are that Makarov still has supporters after all this?"

Nikolai gave a shrug. "It is possible. But he couldn't go back to Russia after all this."

"Right. They'd arrest him on sight. So we need to think of somewhere he could hide for an extended period of time." Where, was the question. "Maybe we should call it a night..."

The Russian gave a curt nod and headed towards the door. "I will give Yuri a call, just to check in on him."

"Mhm..." Price continued to stare at the map a few minutes longer before he started cleaning everything up. Two empty plates and one barely touched portion of spaghetti. This was enough to concern Price. His old charge normally had a very healthy appetite, had to with how active he was. Not wanting to waste perfectly good food, Price packaged up the leftovers and left them in the fridge before going to clean up the plates. While he was doing the dishes though, he heard a shout from Soap in the living room. _Probably fell off the couch or something. Wouldn't be the first time..._ "You alright in there?"

He didn't get a response. Price dried off the last plate and set it on the counter before heading to the living room. He found Soap pacing the length of the room, his arm tucked in close to his chest and tugging at his shirt front. His breathing was rapid, just on the verge of hyperventilating, and his widened, tear stained eye swept the room hardly able to focus on any one thing for more than a couple seconds at a time.

The obvious distress was enough for Price to give pause at the entry way. "Soap?"

Soap's attention was lost almost as quickly as it was grabbed. He mumbled something, though it sounded less like real words and more like he was trying to talk through a mouth full of cotton.

Price stepped into the room and quickly closed the distance. "What's wrong, son?" He placed a hand on Soap's shoulder, finding it to be clammy with cold sweat.

In a flash, the younger shoved him back and stumbled away a few steps with a yelp. His hand shook as it clutched the back of the couch, allowing him to lean over, though he didn't stay in that resting position for long at all before he resumed his pacing.

"Soap? Can you hear me?" Price didn't dare reach out to touch him again, and instead watched him move around restlessly. Still there was no coherent response to his question. Another minute passed with Soap still in some state of hysteria, and Price was just about ready to give up and attempt to sit him down when suddenly he came to a dead stop. "You want to take a seat?"

Surprisingly, Soap gave a shallow nod and shuffled over to the couch, where he haphazardly sunk down into it and ran his hand through his hair for about the millionth time since this started. He took deliberately slow breaths. "...Bloody hell..." His voice was weak, groggy even.

"Feeling better?" Price asked, hesitantly sitting down next to him.

He blinked a few times and rubbed the moisture from his face. "What're ya talkin' about?"

"You've been walking all around the room looking on the verge of a panic attack," Price said, though he had a more than a good enough answer based on the fact that he was getting an actual response.

Soap glanced around the room, seeming to slowly take this in. "Sorry... It was probably just another night terror..."

The second he heard the term 'night terror', the situation clicked into place. The doctor mentioned that Soap had been having them. "It's fine. Do you need anything?"

"No. I'll just go take that stupid sleep aid and go lie down." Sluggishly, he slipped off the couch and lumbered off to his room. The only sound that indicated he made it was a quiet thud as the door shut.

So it hadn't been a result of his meds. Price made a mental note of this and got up to go get some bedding arranged for Nikolai. A pillow and blanket were left for him on the couch when the Russian stepped back into the house. He gave Price an odd look. "Did I miss something?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

* * *

Most of the time, the only thing that remained in Soap's mind following his night terrors were the vaguest impressions of what sort of hell his mind conjured up. A common theme was that he felt threatened and terrified. Every so often though, he recalled fragments of the living nightmares he saw. Empty eye sockets, giant dogs about to leap at him, encroaching shadows... He'd fall asleep in his bed and end up anywhere else, and Price was nearby trying to talk him back down from it every time. A pattern formed in that first week. Soap wouldn't sleep well, which led to him being able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat, which half the time led to him having another night terror, then he'd be too scared to sleep for a few hours and lose more sleep and the cycle just kept feeding itself.

If it weren't for the fact that he felt guilty about putting Price through that, he wouldn't have told the therapist about any of it when he came in for his appointment. Ordinarily he would have rather suffered in silence and drank himself under, but that was when he lived alone and didn't bother anyone else with the issue. Price was the one who had to deal with it when he had them though, so it would have been purely selfish and irresponsible for Soap to disregard the problem like that.

The therapist was a petite woman, sandy hair knotted up in a tight bun and piercing amber eyes. Tapping her pen against the desk, she studied his face. "Did you have these night terrors as a child as well?"

"Aye." When he was young, his parents got into screaming matches that were just about impossible to ignore. The then six year old Johnny found himself gravitating towards his sister's nursery, where he would hide away under the crib with the toddler until the yelling stopped. Around that same time, he started having night terrors, which only seemed to drive a bigger wedge between his parents. Ultimately, his mother walked out and his father was convinced that a good smack was enough to deal with his kid screaming at three in the morning. "They stopped around when I was teenager though."

"And when did you move out?" She asked.

"I left for basic training when I was sixteen."

Dr. Hollander gave a low hum. "Seems to me that you took yourself out of a situation that you were powerless in and placed yourself in one where you felt more in control. If that's the case then your current issues may be because you feel like that control's been taken away from you."

As much as he didn't want to admit that a bloody therapist was right, the evaluation seemed to hit the nail on the head. "If it was, then what would you suggest?"

Even though the question was worded as a hypothetical, she seemed well aware that this was him admitting that she was correct. She smiled and folded her hands together. "I would tell you to deconstruct what your training's taught you and take from it the tools you need to feel self reliant again. Being handicapped doesn't necessarily make you helpless, and that's what you have to remember. Maybe even try taking up art."

Soap gave her a blank stare with the suggestion. There was no way she could have known about his service journal with all his doodles and sketches. He'd only ever shown Nikolai one page for a game of tic-tac-toe, and the only other person he dared to show any of his diagrams or drawings to was Ghost, who literally took what he saw to the grave. "... But I can't draw with my left hand."

"You can train your hand to move the way you want it to, just like any other part of your body. It'll take time, but you improving is completely dependent on your willingness to try."

"Is that all you'd advise?" He shifted and glanced at the clock. They've been at this for a half hour now.

"Mm... Well, I'm considering tweaking your medication, but we'll wait a bit and see where you're at before we look into that."

Oh because that's definitely what he wanted to hear, changes in the already painful to remember regiment of taking his meds. If it got any more complicated then he'd need to work out a better system than read every label every morning and night just see what needed to be taken when. "We'll see."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you all so much for the love and support for this story. It really means a lot. It surprised me to receive a couple reviews within the first day that I posted the last chapter. I meant to write this chapter far sooner, but a lot of things in my life came up and I couldn't manage to sit down and focus on this story._

* * *

 **Hereford UK, 29th November 2016**

Funerals had a magical ability to fill anyone with dread at the slightest mention of them. The two held for Roach and Ghost were no exception. It was hard for MacTavish to fathom how two incredible men like them could be murdered in August, then not have any sort of last rites performed until over three months later. Much like his and Price's trial, it was an occasion that attracted press like maggots to a fresh cadaver. Roach's mother, Elise Sanderson, fought tooth and nail since word of her son's death reached her for his right to a proper burial. By the time anyone could get to both his and Ghost's bodies, left in a pair of unmarked graves by Toad and Archer before they dared to leave the area, the short war had come to a close and they were beyond recognizable. Had it not been for the dog tags, it would have been impossible to identify them.

Roach's funeral got more attention, for obvious reasons. Medals were awarded to him postmortem, and he deserved every single one. Roach's family gathered, as well as a large mass of friends and a gaggle of SAS operatives he'd remained in contact with after his transfer to the 141. He had people who deeply grieved for him, yet there was a blanketing air of relief over everyone gathered that day. At least what was left of Roach was brought home and could be buried. At one point, Roach's mother stopped her son's former Captain, and upon asking who he was, smiled and tearfully told him about how much Roach mentioned him in his Emails to her. Only respect and admiration from the Sergeant, who thought the world of his commanding officer and all the hard work he did for the sake of his men. MacTavish politely excused himself and waited in the back for longer than he wanted till his chest stopped hurting.

By stark contrast, Ghost lacked much of any human connections outside their task force. No family, no friends in the outside world... The funeral home didn't know what to do without any next of kin so Price and MacTavish had to explain that the man's family died a long time ago. With very little that they could spare, the two ended up paying for a cremation and Ghost's military status at least got him a space to leave the urn. No wake was held, no actual funeral. He was burned up, they bottled him, then drove him down with a marker and left him. Soap stood by that urn for a long time, hand in his pocket to guard against the cold and tears chilling his cheek. Someone had to mourn him, Lieutenant Simon Riley deserved that much.

Day after day past, the ex Captain walked to that cemetery to visit both Ghost and Roach. Each day he cried a little less, until he found he simply couldn't anymore. Every part of him yearned to shed at least a single tear, but his eyes remained dry. Still he came. Then one day, a familiar voice broke his vigil. "Captain. It's been a while."

MacTavish looked over his shoulder to find Archer standing behind him. "Aye. Sorry, did you want to be alone?"

"No, mate, it's fine." The sniper stepped in beside him and looked down at the overly simple urn at their feet. "I don't know if Walcroft told you the story, but he died trying to save Roach. They didn't..." He sighed, trying to work out what he trying to say. "They didn't deserve what happened to 'em."

"He told me," Soap affirmed. "And to think, Shepherd killed them and still got a hero's welcome when he came home in a box..."

Archer shook his head. "It ain't right, sir. Something tells me that once Makarov's been resolved, there might be some fighting over it."

"I don't think so. As far as the public's concerned, Shepherd was killed in his crusade against Makarov. It's easier to rally more support against the actual threat right now than to deal with the PR problems that the truth involves." It wasn't right, and even though Price had yet to comment on the matter, Soap saw fury burning in his eyes when he heard the news. In the end, history would see Shepherd as a hero. "The man bet on the right horse."

The sniper knitted his long fingers together. "On a different note, I almost didn't recognize you."

"Aye." MacTavish gave his stump a pointed glance. "I lost weight."

Archer laughed. "At least you still got your sense of humor."

The former Captain maintained a smile for now. "Well, when you aren't as handy as you used to be, jokes are about the only thing you have."

"Tell you what, how 'bout you and I go to the pub in town. I can call up Toad too and it can be just like old times." He glanced down at the urn at their feet, and gave a flat chuckle. "We'll pour one out for you too, mate."

"Aye, I'm sure he'd appreciate it." Just like old times... It wasn't unheard of back in the days of the Task Force 141 for MacTavish to join his men on a night out for drinks. They'd celebrate after a successful mission, a birthday every so often, and even the rare announcement that some lucky bastard had a baby on the way. He and Ghost were practically joined at the hip when they went drinking, largely because MacTavish found entertainment in how easily his XO could end up shitfaced. At this point, MacTavish couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to sit down and have a drink. A few months now at least, since fear of capture kept him and Price straight while they were on the run. "Let's go then."

An hour later, they met with Toad at the pub and were greeted by the bartender with a mix of surprise and joy. "Hell yeah, there's my ops boys!" He didn't even so much as bat an eye when he saw MacTavish's state. He never paid anyone's injuries any mind, never asked questions about them or tried to wrestle a story from them. He was probably one of the best bartenders Soap ever met for that reason alone. The three of them got their drinks, plus a shot of gin for Ghost and a pint for Roach, and found a comfortable spot in the corner of the bar where they wouldn't get bothered. They had some catching up to do.

* * *

24:46.  
Price stared at the time as worry settled into his gut. Soap left hours ago to go visit the cemetery and he hadn't heard from his old charge since that. Anything could've happened and he wouldn't be sure. Despite his concerns, he hadn't tried to contact him. The man needed space, or so the therapist told him. That's what kept Price from calling him after the first hour, then two, three...

Six hours was where he drew the line. He dialed up Soap's burner phone and waited a half a minute while the dial tone sounded in his ear. No answer. Price glowered at his cellphone and tried again. Still nothing. He took a deep breath. No word from him and no answer. His next move was to call Nikolai and ask. Fortunately, he received an answer this time.

" _Что ты хочешь?_ " Nikolai was groggy, if nothing else; probably sleeping like a normal person.

Best he get straight to the point. "Yeah, have you heard from Soap? He left hours ago and hasn't been answering his phone."

" _нет_. Do you need help looking?"

"I'd appreciate it."

A loaded sigh on the other end. "Alright. I'm getting up now. Where did he say he was going?"

"The cemetery, but that closes at dusk," Price answered.

"He can be anywhere then." With the sound of shifting and a rustling fabric, Nikolai said, "Keep trying to call him. He should answer at some point."

At this point, Price didn't know what he'd do without Nikolai being around to help him. "I will. Thanks."

After that, he went and got his boots on then went out to his car to start driving through town and looking. All the while, he continued to try calling Soap. After about the ninth attempt, there was finally an answer.

"Aye, whose this?"

There was something off with Soap's voice, and Price could hear a lot of chatter in the background. "Soap, where the bloody hell are you? It's past midnight."

"Um... The old pub on Main Street..." A brief pause. "What's got your bonnet in a twist?"

Price quickly turned off the road he was on to head towards the location. "I called you nine times and you weren't answering."

"Sorry, mate, was on silent."

"Fine. Just stay where you are, I'm coming to get you." He then hung up before any sort of argument could be made and called Nikolai to tell him he knew where Soap was and was heading to get him now. The Russian gave a yawn and announced he'd go back to bed before ending the call.

In seven or so minutes, Price parked outside the pub and went in. It wasn't hard to locate his former charge, since he was seated with Toad and Archer with a decent amount of empty drinks and still a couple untouched ones on the table. Before Price approached him, he checked with the bartender to make sure the tab was paid, it was, thankfully, so he walked up to the table and clapped a hand on Soap's shoulder.

His sudden presence was enough to make Soap jump, but in his idled state he smacked his knee on the table leg and nearly knocked over a couple of the empty glasses. The jostle caused a mug of lager to splash some of its contents on the tabletop. "Fuck. Do ya mind not-" Soap turned his head to look at him and stopped talking immediately. "Oh."

Maybe Price could've provided more warning than he had, but he hadn't had much choice as Soap's blind side was to the rest of the bar. It was an odd change of behavior, since every other time, he kept his blind side to walls and wherever people couldn't sneak up on him. Maybe he got careless after a few drinks. "Come on, lad, time to go."

Soap sighed and got up, not without a noticeable sway as he stood. "Thanks, Archer. See ya around."

"Any time, Captain," Archer replied, nudging a lethargic Toad, who leaned heavily on his shoulder.

Price ushered Soap out of the pub and into the passenger seat. Though frustrated at the situation, he decided to hold off and not say anything for now. The conversation could wait until Soap was sober enough to explain himself. The drive home was silent for all of about five minutes.

"Yer mad, aren't ya, Cap'ain," Soap said, his head propped against the window.

The most Price could provide was a sideways glance before he had to turn his attention back to the road. "Yes, I'm mad. You could've at least told me where you were going." It didn't even look like any of them had stayed sober. Who would've driven them all home? How could they act so recklessly? "What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't, alright? Is that what you want to hear?" Soap shot back. "You don't have to do all this ya know."

"When you do shit like this, yes, I have to." Price practically white knuckled the steering wheel at this point. "How did you plan on getting back?"

Soap frowned. "I woulda figured something out."

There was just so much wrong there. No planning had been done, no forethought. Just pure impulse apparently. "You know you shouldn't be drinking with your meds, right?"

"Fucking relax, I know that. I won't take 'em tonight. One day without that bloody sleep aid's not gonna kill me, Price." With crossed arms, Soap turned his head away. "And before you say it, no, I don't need that painkiller either."

Price turned into his driveway and shut the car off. For a long minute, he sat in the driver's seat and sought to calm himself down. "I'm not looking for a fight here, son. I'm just worried about you."

"Fine." Soap opened his door and got out of the car, but not without some stumbling. With a loud crackle of branches, he landed in a near bare shrub. "Fucking..."

"You alright?" Price got out now and helped him up. Even in the low light, he could make out a few scratches and cuts. "Come on, let's get these cleaned up."

After that, Soap stopped resisting him and Price found it unusually easy to sit him down and take care of the minor injuries. If the man were in any sound state of mind, he would've protested by now and insisted that he could take care of himself. Instead, Soap stared at the floor, disconnected from the situation. Shortly after Price finished up and put away the box of bandages and threw away the damp paper towel, his former charge ended up falling asleep on the couch. Price shook his head and laid a spare blanket over him before going to turn in himself.

For the first time in a couple of weeks, Price wasn't woken up by one of Soap's night terrors.

* * *

There's a saying about drinking. Alcohol lets you take some happiness from tomorrow to have tonight. Ordinarily, Soap didn't get hungover from his nights drinking - likely from his tolerance he'd built over the last five years. After a couple of months sober though, that's gone out the window. He drank no more than he usually did, and yet he woke up feeling like death warmed over.

For an unknown amount of time (could have been hours as far as he cared), Soap laid on the couch. It wasn't until his stomach flipped that he had any motivation to stand up, let alone move. Whatever he'd eaten last night came back up and then some. He sat in front of the toilet a long while dry heaving, miserable between that and a brutally pounding headache. When his stomach finally calmed down, he stood up and opened the medicine cabinet to grab the aspirin bottle. He shook out two white pills and tossed them in his mouth, but the instant he tried to swallow them, he yet again heaved as the dry pills agitated the back of his throat.

Determined not to waste the pills, he turned on the sink and cupped a few hand fulls of water to help the medication go down easier. Once he was sure they weren't about to come back up, he sighed with relief and sat down on the tile floor for several minutes. All he could do in that time was tuck his head down between his knees and wait to feel less shitty.

A couple (very loud) knocks interrupted his quiet time. "You still alive in there?"

Soap didn't bother moving and supplied a spiritless, "Aye..."

"Manage to finally trash yourself?" Price guessed on the other side of the door.

Trashed was putting it lightly. MacTavish forgot how much Archer could throw back and did his best to keep up him rather than take a break to drink some water or even simply stop all together. He didn't regret doing so either. It was better that he was completely blotted and couldn't recall the night in any great detail, as opposed to his sober nights up until this point spent staring at the ceiling and wondering if that night he'd be greeted with another nightmare. Just a dead, dreamless sleep. He could care less how sick he felt the next day.

 _First step to being a bloody alcoholic._ Soap took a deep breath, got up at long last, and went straight to his room to hopefully sleep off his hangover. He crashed on the mattress and buried his head under the pillows, soon drifting off into oblivion.

The very next thing he was consciously aware of was being in a state of panic. He couldn't recall the reason for it, only the overwhelming feeling of dread that he associated with being stranded deep in enemy territory with tangos closing in. Mortars ripped through the dirt and gunfire zinged past his ears. Summer heat, and the acrid stench of blood... His heart was racing and he'd broken into a cold sweat. Distantly, he became aware that hands were on his shoulders, keeping him pressed down into a chair in the living room. "... Price...?"

"I'm right here, son." One hand gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "You're alright."

The most the ex Captain could muster was a slow nod as he took in the situation. Of course he had another night terror. "Sorry."

Price removed his hands and sat down beside him. "There's nothing to apologize for."

"Yes, there is," Soap insisted, shaking his head. "It's not right that you have to put up with me running around screaming in my sleep."

"It's nothing to be sorry about. You can't help it." The older man gave his arm a pat. "Someone's got to be around to make sure you don't hurt yourself, and I don't trust many other people to do that."

It was what Price told him every time Soap voiced his frustration towards the situation. His pride demanded he not be so helpless as to need someone to keep an eye on him while he sleeps, that he shouldn't have to drag other people down with his own problems. Price had a borderline hero complex with how much of other peoples' problems he willingly shouldered, and, regardless of whether it was wanted or not, that included Soap's. "You shouldn't have to though."

"Neither should you." There it was. Once more, another dig at his how closed off he'd been with his problems. A moment later, Price added, "I'm not the concern here. Be honest with me, how're you feeling?"

Soap bowed his head, pressure steadily building in his skull. "Like shite."

"Lay down then and rest." With that oh so insightful advice, Price nudged him down on his back and draped the blanket over him. "We can talk later."

* * *

The day passed quietly for Price after Soap's night terror. The man dozed in the living room for a good portion of the day, only holding very short and simple conversation when it came up. At one point he got up and grabbed his journal to scribble in, but that was only for ten minutes before he must have given up again and turned on the TV to preoccupy himself.

Price took the chance to get some chores done: namely laundry and cleaning up his kitchen. While he prepared a very simple lunch for the both of them, a call came in on the landline. It couldn't have been MacMillan, Nikolai, or Yuri, since they all knew and opted to contact Price's cell phone first before they ever bothered trying the house. He had several guesses though. The land lady preferred the landline, his ex-wife and son didn't have his burner phone's number, and there had to be about a million telemarketers out there. Now, just in case it was either his son or the land lady, he picked up the phone and answered with a tentative, "Hello?"

"Hey, is this Captain Price...?" There were three things that Price noticed from that single question: woman, Scottish, and a complete stranger. Oddly, she seemed to know him despite him not remembering talking to any Scottish women in recent memory.

"Yes, I am," he drawled, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder so he could continue making lunch. "Who is this?"

"Bridget MacTavish. Major General MacMillan said I should contact you."

He paused, the knife in his hand boring into his cutting board. One of Soap's relatives? Couldn't have been a wife, so he had to guess either a sister or a cousin. She sounded far too young to be his mother. "And why's that?"

There was a brief silence, but the rub of fabric on the other end betrayed a nervous energy. "I heard my brother, John, has been living with you. Is he there?"

Price gripped the hilt of his knife till his knuckles blanched. "Where the bloody hell were you when the hospital was looking for a next of kin?" Was it harsh? A bit. Did Price feel any remorse for it? Not in the slightest.

"It's complicated. Can I speak to my brother or no?"

Was it his place to bar someone from speaking to their sibling? There was no good answer for it. On one hand, Soap never spoke ill of his sister, but he barely ever talked about his family outside the rare reference. From what Price gathered though, his home life was to the effect of an alcoholic father, an absent mother, and a sister who he had to care for. At best, they were a very dysfunctional household, and at worse there may have been domestic violence. "'It's complicated' isn't a good enough reason for me to let you."

The woman on the other end stammered. "It's none of your business. I'm his fucking family, you reprobate!"

"Yes, family that was conveniently absent when he needed it most," Price remarked. "Sorry, but it became my business when I became the one actively housing him. So either you can explain it or leave a message."

"..." If it weren't for the absence of a click, Price would have assumed she hung up. Finally, she said, "Just tell him that I want to meet up at some point soon." Finally, there was the blessed click and dial tone that marked the end of the call. He could only sigh with relief.

"What was that all about?"

Price set the phone back into its cradle and resumed his cooking, though he gave Soap some of his attention. Seemed he must have overheard part of the heated phone call. "Nothing important, son. Just an idiot."

Soap leaned against the door frame now and blinked at Price. "What'd they want?"

"Doesn't matter. They're bound to call back anyways." Price finished cutting the vegetables and set the knife down. "Are you feeling any better?"

The question was enough to distract the younger man from his line of questioning. "Aye. No need to worry about me."

"Good. Now can you grab a couple plates? Lunch is just about done."

* * *

There were few times Price could remember feeling uncomfortable consulting MacMillan. In his youth, if it ever happened, it was purely for fear of being badgered about his impulsive decisions. This time though, something sat in his gut that he didn't want to call betrayal, but felt very much similar. Bridget apparently confronted the Major General about her brother, and he diverted her to Price.

Luckily, the old man was more than willing to meet up with Price and discuss it while Soap was meeting with his therapist. They met up at a small cafe, ordered tea, and sat down off the the side. MacMillan propped his cane against the wall and gave Price a stony look. "I'm assuming you didn't call me up for a date. What's this about, lad?"

Price brushed his fingertip around the edge of the cup, using the steam as an indicator that his tea was still too hot to drink. "I got a call the other day from a woman: Bridget MacTavish. She said you told her to contact me."

"Straight to the point then. Aye, I did." MacMillan picked up his own cup and drank the piping hot drink with little indication that the heat bothered him. "It was a matter of time before your friend's family popped up. Apparently she heard that he's been discharged but no longer lived at his old apartment and his old number was given to someone else. So instead, she started calling every last person she could get a hold of asking about him."

"That right?" Price furrowed his brows.

MacMillan nodded and glanced about the dining area. The place was also a flower shop, but given the time of year, their focus shifted to the upcoming holiday season. "She was at it for well over a week before I ended up answering her myself. So I told her that MacTavish is staying with you and left it at that. She probably got your number from the phone book."

All he could offer was an indignant huff. He knew MacMillan was a busy man to begin with. If she was causing that much of a stir, then it was no wonder he threw her a bone. "I don't like it though. We couldn't find her when Soap was in the hospital, and now suddenly she's here demanding to see him."

"Could've been a lot of things, son. Either way, it's not for us to decide." The old man rubbed at his coarse beard, once a light brown and now flecked with grey. "You told him she called, right?"

"I'm getting around to it," Price mumbled, picking up his cup to sip at his tea.

If looks could kill, then the sharpness of MacMillan's stare would've ended Price in that instant. "You haven't said anything?"

"None of it makes any bloody sense, Mac. Why now? Last I heard, they hit a rough patch and now she's asking to see him. I know for a fact Soap hasn't reached out."

"People change."

Price set down his cup, a withering frown set into his face. "I don't like it is all I'm saying."

MacMillan finished his drink and stood up, grabbing his cane. "Doesn't matter if you do. Let MacTavish work this one out himself. See you soon, John."

For the rest of the day, Price was silent as he mulled his options over. Telling Soap could bring trouble. Holding back this information though would lead to resentment if Soap ever found out about it. If Bridget was going to continue being persistent, then Price couldn't gamble on that uncertainty. Soap would find out he hid the phone call, and he would be pissed.

That evening, he resolved to tell him outright. Price went to Soap's room and knocked a couple of times. When he was met with no answer, he poked his head into the darkened room. The only sound inside was the younger's man's slow breathing. In the low light, he barely made out his sleeping form on the bed, his back turned away, and one of his prescription bottles left on the nightstand next to an empty glass.

Price carefully shut the door. _Not now then._ He retired to his room, but found sleep hard to come by. For an hour, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling before he gave up and went to the living room to sit on the couch and watch the TV. Hopefully the late night shows would tire him out. The news was monotonous enough, at least he felt that way.

01:45, the sound of footsteps on the wood floor snapped him from whatever near sleep he found himself in. Price looked back to the doorway, where Soap was standing quietly. "Everything alright, son?"

Soap rubbed his eye and stepped fully into the living room now. "Aye... what're ya doing up?"

Relieved that this wasn't another one of the younger man's night terrors, Price sunk back into the cushions. "Watching the tellie."

"I've noticed." He sat down next to him. "Be honest with me, Price. Is something wrong?"

Price glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Soap had opted to seat himself with Price on his blind side and kept his gaze fixed on the TV. There wasn't any indication that he was trying to read him for signs of deception. This was absolute trust right now. Price's stomach coiled into a knot. "What makes you think there is?"

"You've been quiet since I got out of therapy earlier." After a brief pause, he added, "More than normal."

With a weighted sigh, Price gave up. "You remember that call a few days ago?"

"Aye, the one on the line?" Soap pulled his eye off the TV now to face him.

"It was your sister. She was asking to talk to you."

There was a moment of silence before Soap rubbed at his face. "Did she say what she wanted?"

Taking the fact he didn't bring up that this was a few days late to tell him as a good sign, Price eased up some. "She wanted to meet up or something, but she wasn't very specific about anything."

"Of course she wasn't..." Soap's hand went down to scratch at the stubble along his jaw. "I'll call her back. See what's up."

Hearing her out was exactly what Price expected Soap to do. It wasn't in him to burn bridges like Price would have done. In the end, it didn't matter what he would have done. This was purely for Soap to decide for himself.

* * *

A week passed since Soap learned his sister tried to contact him. In that time, he called her back and they arranged a meeting. Apparently this was concerning Christmas, since it was one of the only holidays he ever bothered driving six hours back to Scotland for. It was done less out of love at this point and more out of duty. With the old man ailing in his early sixties, he felt obligated to make an appearance at home, attend Christmas Mass, and spend the day there. It could be the last year he could do so with his father, after all.

The day they chose to meet, he sat at the park and waited for her with his arm tucked in close to fend off the chill of an approaching winter wind. He managed to pin the extra length of his jacket's right sleeve up to the shoulder, making it far easier to throw on over his stump. That coupled with a knit hat pulled down just about to his eyebrows and his beard having grown out made him look virtually unrecognizable from the man he once was a year ago.

Unsurprisingly, when Bridget came to the park, she didn't realize who he was and went to sit at a different bench twelve meters away. Soap stared at her for at least a minute, wondering how to approach the situation. Turned out he didn't need to. His staring was enough to grab her attention, which earned him a "Can I help you?"

Sometimes he really wished he could be wrong. "Aye, Bridget."

If reality were anything like cartoons, her eyes would have leaped from her skull. They came pretty close. She quickly picked up her purse and came right over. "Oh goodness, John? What the...?" She trailed, looked him up and down - lingering a touch too long on his pinned up sleeve - with a hand pressed over her mouth. "Jesus. When they said you'd been discharged..."

"Sorry, did you want me to go get the rest of me and come back," Soap deadpanned. Hopefully this would give her the hint that this wasn't a topic he was willing to discuss with her. "What did you need?"

She gave a slow nod. "... Dad's not doing well. His medication's getting pretty expensive and the doctors keep adding new prescriptions onto what he already has to take. We were wondering if you'd be willing to chip in a bit to help him out."

Why was he in no way surprised? He glowered up at her from where he sat. "In case you can't tell, I have my own set of medical expenses I have to pay for and I don't have a job to make the money to offer."

Bridget's initial shock was gone in an instant, replaced with her usual stubbornness. She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Look, you chose to do your special ops hero shite. That's on you. But this is our dad we're talking about. He needs these meds to live and you're just gonna let him die?"

"If I _had_ the money to offer, then I would. I don't." Soap stood up to leave. Of course this was a waste of time. "If that's all you called me out here for, then we're done here."

A hand grabbed his sleeve. Although he could have pulled it free, he instead stopped. "Please, Johnny... This could be a chance to fix things. You can come home and we can all be a family again. Don't you want that? Please, _please_ , don't walk away again. You're always leaving."

Soap didn't move right away. After several long seconds, he pulled his sleeve free of her fingers. "I will when there's something worth staying around for."

"Y-you're just going to run away again?" Bridget yelled. "We're your family!"

"Have you or dad ever once tried to just be there for me when shite's going down hill? No. I always have to be the one to get over myself and be there for you." He turned to her, a cold anger in his eye. "Every time. Mom leaves and I'm the one who has to keep things from falling apart. I gave up a normal childhood because dad couldn't get his act together and be an adult. Even now, I'm going through hell and haven't gotten my life together, and here you are blaming me for it and asking me to _just get over myself_ and go back with you."

"You're putting words in my mouth," she snapped, rearing up as tall as she could (still nowhere near tall enough to match him). "I'm asking you to stop with the loner pity party and come home already."

"Take one good look at me. I'm missing a fucking arm and I'm half blind. This isn't a fucking pity party!" He took a step back, frustration making his face a deep cherry color. "I'm done. Don't come looking for me again." With that, he walked away whilst his sister continued to shout from her spot at him. He tuned her out and left the park. Rather than follow the main roads home, where she could easily get into her car and follow him, he opted for side roads and took a few paths where vehicles wouldn't follow him. It took twice as long getting back than it should have.

When he got back, Price was reading over a news article on his laptop. He glanced up momentarily. "So how'd it go?"

Soap shrugged off his jacket and hung it by the door. "Just peachy."

"That bad, huh?" His former Captain didn't look up this time.

"Yeah." With that, the younger man withdrew and went to his room. For a long while, he lay in bed and stared off in the distance beyond the ceiling. A storm was brewing in his head, menacing and dark. Some resentful part of him wanted nothing more than to act on the impulses he felt; turn the emotional and mental pain into something physical that he could handle. He didn't need to test that to know how well it'd go. Price would find out right away, and it'd earn him more frequent therapist sessions and maybe another stay at the hospital. It wasn't worth making a bigger burden of himself. Instead, he'd have to deal with his hellish mindscape with no outlet.

A knock on the door forced him to pull his head out of the storm.

"Aye?"

The door opened and Price settled against the frame. "You've been quiet since you got back. I just figured I'd check on you."

Soap sat up. Rolling over to face away from him would be too obvious. "I'm just moping. I'll get over it."

"Did you want to talk about it?" The offer didn't sound forced by any means, and there was a genuine sense of concern that painted Price's features.

"Nah, that's fine. There's not a whole lot to tell anyways."

His attempt at being dismissive towards the matter didn't fool Price though. "If you change your mind then, I'm all ears. Now, did you want to help with dinner?"

It was the first time Price had ever extended the offer to him. Ordinarily he just would cook the meals himself. Although Soap knew the reason behind it, make him feel a little more needed around the place, it definitely felt like a better alternative to what he was doing. At least if he was productive, he could keep his mind off things. "Sure. Why not."

* * *

 _And so ends yet another chapter. I'm really sorry this one was so late. Life sorta got the better of me and I've been preoccupied. Amongst other things, I attempted to enlist in the Army, was disqualified, and have had a few financial hurdles to get over.  
Now, in all honesty, I almost gave up with this fic. Terrible, I know. This was just a very hard chapter to write and I only really had the first scene written for months. All it took was one person commenting that they were waiting for an update and I just felt like I needed to try again. Sure enough, I got this chapter done over the course of the last two weeks. I feel like it's rough, that it wasn't at all worth all that time you guys waited for it. I'm sorry about that.  
Thanks for the support, and I'll try not to take so long next time around._


End file.
